


In case of flowerpot

by OrphanText



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Domesticity, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-28
Updated: 2014-12-28
Packaged: 2018-03-04 00:13:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,118
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2895623
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OrphanText/pseuds/OrphanText
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Its the end of the year, and Crowley keeps a constant eye on Bobby. You know, just in case of in case.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In case of flowerpot

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was entirely unexpected, seeing as I didn't plan to do anything for xmas. But we do have a belief (as Chinese) that the end of the year is the time where they will try to make up their quota for souls (AKA dead people) for the year before it closes and the new year rolls in. This is also why terrible accidents tend to occur around Dec/Jan (Feb is the new year). So be careful when you head out! Don't be an easy target!
> 
> Beta: ice-evanesco

A normal Saturday sees Bobby on his knees, grunting angrily as he reaches for that last, evasive sock in the kitchen.

 

“Shut up,” he grunted in reflex at the quiet, assured presence behind his back, still groping around blindly in the guts of his washing machine. Whoever came up with the idea of a sideload? Sure, it makes clothes less crumply, last longer due to lesser wear and tear and saves water, but it ain’t saving the state of his knees anytime soon. Oh right, it was Mr. Posh Fries Should Be Chips Crowley who Would Not Wear Horrible Wrung Out Socks And Never Did A Day Of Laundry’s idea. Full quote, word for word.

 

God damn it, Crowley.

 

“Bobby, love,” came the chiding tone from behind him. Clucking like a hen, because he never bothered to do any housework for a day in his life, ever. Like one of those disapproving matrons who ran their little fingers over window sills and attempted to give you laser surgery with their eyes until you bobbed your curtsey.

 

“I would never, Bobby. And I will have you know we used to wash all our clothes by hand. In Winter.”

 

“Oh, very nice, what changed?” Bobby hauled himself to his feet with a painful grunt and ominous creaking from his knee joint.

 

“You said that I was not to “put my grubby hands over your man pants”,” Crowley leaned a hip on the counter, book in hand. “I’m very law abiding.”

 

“In what universe?” Bobby couldn’t resist the eye-rolling that threatened to give him a sprain in his head.

 

“I’ve put my hand on worse. Your schlong, for example.” Crowley was holding his hand up for examination. “I don’t see why I am put on the man pants ban. Its nothing I haven’t touched before.”

 

Bobby counted to ten, and backwards, drew in breath and let it out slowly, then managed to unclench his jaw. “Number one, don’t call it a schlong. Number two - ”

 

“Get out of your house?” Crowley smirked at him, then pushed himself off the counter. “So predictable, Bobby. I consider your suggestion, and… no can do.” He smiled broadly, then made his way back to the living room.

 

Bobby watched him make himself scarce, a sigh whistling past his lips before he loaded the now clean laundry into the dryer. Crowley had made himself a semi-permanent fixture in his home ever since Christmas, and had been getting underfoot much like a very annoying feline, and rubbing his figurative fur all over the furniture. So far, he had done nothing but to make ‘hmm’ and ‘ah’ sounds at his bookshelves, hog the couch, and hover whenever he was preparing dinner. He hadn’t said what he was here for, and Bobby wasn’t about to ask, although he was aware of the constant surveillance from Crowley.

 

It was driving him crazy. Whatever he was planning, it better not involve him or the boys, or there would be more than leftover turkey on the table.

 

Speaking of food, the fridge and the shelves were running bare at a check. Bobby shut the fridge grumpily. “I’m heading out,” he called out to the living room where he was sure Crowley had appropriated the couch once again. “Watch the house.”

 

A few hours alone. Heck, even ten minutes alone would be good. While the both of them had come to an arrangement of sorts, and Bobby had started to trust Crowley with the house and information since last year, they hadn’t been spending time together in close proximity for this long. Crowley was busy, and so was Bobby. While there were raised eyebrows and the surprised gesture between (“you and him? you and _him_?”), they worked much better when they were not constantly getting into each other’s spaces. That meant time spent away from each other, meeting up on odd days for maybe a few hours at most, and fucking at night, empty bed in the morning. Whatever. It worked, and they were happy, though he was cautious to admit that he was, too.

 

Having Crowley as a constant presence at his side was like an itch on the back of his neck he couldn’t scratch, much like a plaster stuck on his skin for far too long.

 

Phone, wallet, keys, check. Bobby drew up a mental grocery list, started the engine, drove ten minutes, then hit the steering wheel with the heel of his hand angrily.

 

“Did that hurt?” Crowley asked curiously.

 

“Of course it does! Can’t a man have some time and space to himself?” Bobby bit back the curses, shaking his hand out.

 

“Not if you want to get suffocated by random plastic bags in the streets. Many things can happen when you get out in public.”

 

“You being here is suffocating me! Piss off home, Crowley.”

 

“I _am_ home. Eyes on the road, old boy.”

 

They drove to the grocery store in a terse silence. Crowley never looked away from his phone, fingers nimbly tapping away on the piece of plastic, merely letting himself out of the truck and tailing Bobby like a stray pretending it wasn’t tailing anyone.

 

“So what is the deal with your extended holiday? Christmas is over, you’ve had your turkey.” Bobby asked, collecting a cart at the entrance.

 

“But I don’t have my present.”

 

“You have had your present.”

 

“Chocolate sea salted caramel liqueur that you eventually kept for yourself does not count.”

 

“There was the other one.” The cart rattled on the way to the fresh produce, and Bobby consulted his mental grocery list once more. He had to stock up on the basic tomatoes, carrots, potatoes and onions.

 

“The bag of tiny plastic sheep? If I were any much closer to the poor angel, I would have re-gifted it to him. Lord is my shepherd, etcetera, he would have appreciated it. Didn’t pin you for a chocolate sea salted caramel liqueur man, though.”

 

“And if the little sheep being left all around my house is any indicative of you appreciating your own christmas present… “ Bobby set a bag of plump tomatoes into his cart, and reached for a head of lettuce.

 

“Fine. They were entertaining, to a certain degree.”

 

“There we go.” Finding a tiny sheep standing on top of the fridge, next to his pillow, in the rice cooker and any other spaces accommodating of tiny plastic animals was now a common occurrence in the house. How Crowley had managed to fashion little pickets for them as well with varying undecipherable messages was perplexing, but Bobby had committed himself to not thinking too hard about everything that Crowley does.

 

“Do you not like the quality time that we finally have to ourselves? What with us being apart for most of the year, I thought you might like to spend the end of it together.” Crowley looked at him earnestly over his phone, gaze oddly sincere.

 

Bobby grimaced, fingers plucking uneasily at the cabbage leaves, and turned away from Crowley to put it in with the tomatoes, shoulders hunching. “I didn’t say that I didn’t enjoy it,” he said gruffly. “I’m just seeing much more of you than I’m used to.”

 

“How much more? Shall we leave the lights on tonight? Just so you wouldn’t miss a single square inch.” Crowley certainly didn’t let this one slip by. “That’s alright, Bobby. Come New Year, you’ll have the house entirely to yourself again.”

 

“You’re not planning anything, are you?” Bobby watched him suspiciously as he put mushrooms into the cart.

 

“Me? Not at all. Cross my heart.” A few other items tumbled into the cart, and he nudged it forwards. “Steak and potatoes for dinner tonight?”

 

Crowley remained mostly silent for the rest of it, except for the occasional input he made to Bobby’s selections, and also gleefully holding up a wrapped carton of a vaguely gleaming pig’s brain (“Pig’s brain soup, love!”). He also bought a stick of candy, which he popped into his mouth the moment Bobby had paid for it.

 

“What is the use of you if you are not going to help with the bags?” Bobby puffed angrily on the way to the truck, plastic bags hanging heavily off his arms.

 

“Watching for falling flowerpots this time of the year?” Crowley did, however, help him open the door to the truck, and that cut off some of the things Bobby was about to say in favour of loading the bags into the backseat.

 

“Falling flowerpots?” Bobby grumbled, clambering into the truck and sticking the key into ignition.

 

“Freak accidents do happen more frequently at the end of year.” Crowley jerked his chin at the road. “Drive.”

 

“No flowerpots are gonna fall on my head,” Bobby crumpled up his face in disbelief. “That’s ridiculous. There’s nowhere it could be falling down from.”

 

“Hm, stop the car, will you?”

 

“Whatever for? Are you carsick?” Bobby was stopped by a sudden, vice-like grip on his arm, and stopped the car, just as a loud crack sounded, and a large tree branch fell across the road, a few steps ahead of the truck, leaves and all.

 

“Or trees,” Crowley amended amiably.

 

* * *

 

“So, what, you mean to say you’re here as a security measure?” Bobby asked, when the steaks were sizzling in the pans, and the potato skins put into the oven.

 

“I wasn’t lying when I said that I wanted to spend some quality, uninterrupted time together with you,” Crowley said from the kitchen doorway, snacking on the baked mozzarella sticks that Bobby had prepared earlier. “At the end of every year, they will be looking to meet their yearly quota of souls, and the occurrence of fatal freak accidents increases exponentially. You don’t need a security measure, but I just thought I would like to be careful this particular year.”

 

“Like the tree?” Bobby prodded at the side of the steak, pulling away quickly when a spurt of juice caused the oil to spit.

 

“Like the tree.” Crowley dusted his fingers clean of crumbs, and set the plate in the sink. “Shall I set the table?”

 

Dinner was a quiet, delicious affair, perfect steaks and crispy potato skins washed down with beer. Crowley had rolled up his sleeves, and contributed a bowl of creamed spinach to share, and homemade onion rings that he had made sometime when Bobby wasn’t paying attention. Crowley had put his cold feet up on Bobby’s lap halfway through dinner, and Bobby had shoved them off with a warning slap to the ankle the second time Crowley tried it again.

 

When the dishes were done, the both of them wound up on the couch, leaning into each other, Crowley in an ugly christmas jumper that Bobby had left for him to find as a surprise, separate from the presents under the tree. The television couldn’t drown out the sound of Crowley’s complaining at how scratchy it was, and how it pinched at him where he didn’t want to be pinched, while all Bobby could think of was that there were definitely places he could pinch Crowley where he liked it, and pulling the jumper off him for other things.

 

“Stop complaining about your presents,” Bobby huffed.

 

“I shall complain, if it will make you continue what you’re doing,” Crowley raised both brows at him, nodding at where Bobby had a palm flat against his skin, under the Very Ugly Sweater.

 

Bobby laughed, and kissed him.

 

He got his wish that night, rucking up Crowley’s sweater to nibble and kiss at the exposed skin, Crowley’s dark hair sticking up in every direction possible, the tv quietly murmuring in the background. They had sex on the couch, continuing in the bedroom, Crowley murmuring a quiet litany of praise for his cock as he rode him steadily, Bobby’s hands kneading the flesh on his thighs, urging him on silently.

 

Limp and exhausted, they lay curled into each other, a tangled mess of sweat and sticky skin.

 

“Looks like you’ll have to do the laundry again tomorrow,” Crowley said quietly, his voice smoky, tired. Bobby slapped his hand away from where he was curling fingers into his pubic hair. The fingers moved to the tiny hairs on his belly, instead, petting.

 

“I want my top load washing machine back,” Bobby grumbled. “That, or you’re taking responsibility.”

 

“Dirty sheets to a baby, Bobby?”

 

“Shut up, I can’t get on my knees for you all the time.” Bobby adjusted the pillow, and laid his head on it. “So here’s to the end of the year, then.”

 

“Good year?”

 

Bobby ran his fingers through Crowley’s hair and tugged on the nape of it, smiling at the open, content expression on his lover.

  
“Yeah, good year.”

**Author's Note:**

> Reference links:  
> http://www.simplyrecipes.com/recipes/potato_skins/  
> http://www.criolloliqueur.com/products/chocolate-sea-salted-caramel.php (one can dream)
> 
> I got a job, so I wouldn't be writing as much as I used to. I'm sad, but its also good news, right? Have a good Dec!


End file.
